Love in a Maze
by Quellesirel Peredhil
Summary: Experimental fanfiction. Loosely based off of Eliza Haywood's Fantomina. Genderswitch and ridiculous ensues. Oshitari/Atobe, Yukimura/Sanada and Tezuka/Fuji are main pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Love in a Maze

On the night which Miss. Keiko Atobe, a woman of great wealth and spirit, ventured out to the playhouse to see _Il Barbiere di Siviglia_, she sat in the most lusted after box with a group of her peers. Miss. Atobe rather resented her father calling them her peers, for she considered herself peerless in beauty, piano playing, sense, wit and everything else that mattered. The binoculars in her gloved hand were pointed firmly towards the pit of the theater, as she ignored her company quite decidedly.

"As though anyone would actually attend an opera to see an opera," said the pretentious Mr. Wakato beside her, chuckling bemused at his own words. "The purpose, I believe, that separates our play going from that of the lower people is to see and be seen, display the jewels on our _arms_ so to speak. Would you agree, Miss Atobe?" he shot companionable glances to the surrounding fops upon the usage of the word _arms._

"Were you the last man on earth, I would not be your cock for battle," Miss. Atobe did not spare him a glance. The distasteful behavior below intrigued better than what sat beside her; no matter her father's intentions, she would partake in no bourgeoisie pissing contest. Miss Mizuki, who rather resented Mr. Wakato's attention being drawn from her, took a none too discrete hold of his arm and mock smiled at Miss. Atobe.

"Then whose cock do you admire, Miss Atobe?" Miss Mizuki visibly restrained a sneer.

"My admirations are nothing like yours, which are no doubt, to the cock that would weigh most in your purse," Miss. Keigo said offhand, shifting the binoculars towards the unintelligible performance and away from the high class rake, Mr. Oshitari, who entertained two women at a time where most scoundrels sat. The woman onstage cried out in emotional song; the feathers on her head twitched with the elevation of pitch. For all Miss Atobe's prowess, she did not speak any Italian; to her credit, knowledge of Latin helped to decipher the piece.

Miss Mizuki's huff of outrage pleased her; no doubt the hue of her face turned darker than her rogue. Mr. Wakato, who had not listened to any of their bickering, ignored them entirely to imitate one of the Opera players at great length. If she were not disgusted, Miss. Atobe might have been impressed.

"Delightful things, cock fights," Miss. Fuji interjected with a pleased smile on her features as she read the play guide. Mr. Tezuka made no expression, but for the brief one where it looked as if something foul passed under his nose.

Mr. Shishido grinned, the elegant design of his long hair contorting with his mirth. "Not so much as bitch fights," he looked on eagerly, rather hoping the interchange would continue. The idea of Miss. Atobe and Miss. Mizuki wrestling on the ground of a dirty barn interested him more than the opera.

"Are the chickens okay?" Miss. Akutagawa cried out with a note of panic. She had been asleep until Miss. Fuji walked into the room; since then scarce a moment passed without the excitable woman commenting on the finery of Miss. Fuji's dress, hair or Ombre playing. Disrupting the arrangements, she sat beside Miss. Atobe and pulled on her elegant sleeve. "Miss. Atobe, are the chickens okay?"

Mr. Shishido, Miss. Mukahi and Miss. Mizuki snickered. Miss. Jirou's naiveté quite mollified Miss. Mizuki's ego.

"Did we not have roasted chicken for supper, Mr. Tezuka?" Miss. Fuji asked with her ever present smile.

"Aa," Mr. Tezuka answered dully.

Miss. Akutagawa looked about ready to wet herself until Miss. Atobe promised there were many chickens alive and well on her father's estate that she could visit anytime she wished. In a few moments, delicate snores graced the air again and Miss. Atobe prayed Miss. Akutagawa's powder might not ruin her dress sleeve. Discretely, she pulled the mask from Miss. Akutagawa's purse with every intention of using it to disguise the woman's slumber. Upon a second thought she clutched it secretly.

While the conversation turned to the importance of wit in business, Miss. Atobe turned her binoculars again to Mr. Oshitari. Her lips curled in distaste, her heart in envy. It bothered her that he would prefer to entertain whores than sit up here where he belonged – how base! She excused herself to the powder room, still with the secret mask. Curiosity dictated she discover why a man of supposed quality would waste their time in such a manner. She assured herself that surely there was nothing personal in the deed, to rescue a man from the company of women who had every intention to sell him their favors. Entering the bathroom, Miss. Atobe formulated a scheme. She turned to the woman next to her at the mirror -- a gangly, red headed thing.

"Your dress is cheap, with a semblance of taste," Miss Atobe said. If it were not for the obviously shoddy material, she might have even considered it half decent. The redhead sputtered, pointed and went as red as her hair. Some people did react like that when complimented by someone with as much distinction Atobe Keiko. "Let us switch and you can thank me later," Miss. Atobe told her with flourish, already beginning to remove her petticoats.

"…What? Why? How dare you insult me like that you…you…you," despite her protest, the redhead was undoing her outfit as she ranted. "Get your own damned dress!" the redhead advanced, hissing and spitting like a ruffled cat. Miss. Atobe noted that this woman wore no corset, and further noted that she wasn't quite so gangly as she looked when the redhead shoved her, more for intimidation than to actually harm.

"Cease behaving like a ruffian schoolboy," Miss. Atobe commanded, looking down her nose. She moved neither backward nor forward from the push.

"Cease acting like you're better than me or something, because you're not," the redhead hissed.

Miss. Atobe wondered if perhaps she struck a nerve, it didn't matter because she had enough of this farce. She did not care to argue about obvious truths while standing about in only her corset and slip. Pushing the redhead to the wall of the Opera House powder room, she gripped the frail shoulders and demanded the dress from the peasant. The redhead railed and hissed in her grip, but ultimately gave in. Miss. Atobe released her to undress and noticed that her own long blond hair ruffled in the encounter. "What is your name, anyway?" Miss. Atobe said cooly, as the redhead handed over her dress without a word.

"Akiko Kamio," said Miss. Kamio with muted rage.

"You will be receiving compensation within the week," Miss. Atobe informed her, handing over her own rich garments. Miss. Kamio looked as though she would rather piss on them than don them. Still, she dressed with as much dignity as entirely possible. Miss. Atobe could not possibly imagine why she might be offended by the encounter.

Miss. Atobe vacated the powder room wearing the cheap dress and Miss. Akutagawa's mask. It was a freedom unlike any she had known in a long time. Many said she was a great likeness to the cold beauty of Keiko Atobe, and she ate up the double praise vainly. Everyone assumed Keigo Atobe would never be seen anywhere that was not the highest of booths, so her identity was safe so long as she protected it.

As she approached the entrance to the pit, a too familiar figure entered Miss. Atobe's vision. Miss. Sanada, a tall, Amazonian type woman, stood to the side of the pit doors like a loyal Doberman waiting to be graced with its master's presence. Miss. Atobe would know; she owned several Dobermans. In the half mask, Miss. Atobe did not have to worry about being recognized, but Miss. Sanada did not even pretend a disguise. Why was a woman so preoccupied with honor waiting outside the section of the Opera House where the prostitutes sat? Miss. Atobe very much doubted Miss. Sanada was a secret lady of the night. Though the woman's bosom bulged from her dress on occasion, Miss. Atobe figured it was because her chest was simply too big, rather than her dress too small. Breast size had nothing to do with promiscuity. Besides, Miss. Sanada was the fiancée of Mr. Yukimura. Miss. Atobe did not bother police her own thoughts, since even the security guard watching over the theater seemed more preoccupied with Miss. Sanada's breasts than his work. Miss. Sanada just watched the doors.

"Is there someone you are looking for?" Miss. Atobe asked, unable to pique her curiosity. Miss. Sanada looked torn as to whether or not she should reveal her intentions.

"Mr. Yukimura left his seat two hours ago and came here," Miss. Sanada said with surety. "I await him."

Miss. Atobe found it very believable that Miss. Sanada would wait out there for two full hours.

"You followed him then?" Miss. Atobe inquired.

Miss. Sanada looked rather guilty, but justified herself quickly. "He looked under the weather. I believe that is none of your business, Miss." Trust Miss. Sanada to not care at all about the identity of the strange woman questioning her.

Miss. Atobe nodded through her mask and opened the double doors to the pit. As she looked for a seat that looked sanitary enough, she spotted Mr. Yukimura. She was also quite unsurprised to find a woman that very much resembled Miss. Sanada sitting in his lap and grinning coquettishly. The figure of Mr. Oshitari a few rows beyond him caught her attention; his hand was on the knee of some pretty young thing with golden eyes and a sarcastic voice. The woman seemed much more interested in talking about her cat than anything Mr. Oshitari offered. Taking a seat very much in the line of Mr. Oshitari's sight, but not so close as to be conspicuous, Miss. Atobe waited. What exactly she waited for, she did not know. When she truly thought about it, what did she plan to do in entering this place? Not watch the opera of course – she forgot her binoculars and she doubted whores even pretended to speak Italian.

"_Che bella,"_ sounded a deep drawl. Apparently Miss. Atobe could be proved wrong. Mr. Oshitari, rake extraordinaire, sat himself predictably beside her. Except, perhaps Mr. Oshitari really did speak Italian; Miss. Atobe would not put it past him. "What can I call you?" he asked charmingly. Miss. Atobe wonders what on earth she planned to say to him when she left her own booth. Mr. Oshitari must have left the other woman to recollect the graces of her cat in solitude very quickly.

"Fantomina," Miss. Atobe fabricated quickly. Prostitutes probably did not use their real names. If she was pretending to be a whore, she might as well do it thoroughly. "What is your name?"

"Yours," Mr. Oshitari responded, making eye contact with her in a way no one would have normally dared to, given her true station.

"Ahn? For a night or forever?" Miss. Atobe questioned, fighting the urge to snort in a most unladylike manner.

"Is there a difference?" Mr. Oshitari very much doubted there was one.

"My clock would say so," Miss. Atobe said, reasonably.

"You should let it dictate less of your life," Mr. Oshitari chuckled. Time, like love, is fleeting.

"I dictate my own doings, good sir," Miss. Atobe assured him, eyes narrowing behind the mask. She hated any indication that she had any less than absolute control over a situation.

"I wouldn't say so. When your stomach bids you eat, do you ask what's o' clock?" Mr. Oshitari supplied, surely stealing that line from something or other. Miss. Atobe could not recollect what.

"It's only reasonable," Miss. Atobe defended. Meals required preparation, which required advanced notice. If one ate on schedule, they were less likely to ever feel hunger.

"Is it? To consult your jewelry about your stomach?" Mr. Oshitari had never looked so impertinent. Miss. Atobe did not know whether she wanted to step on his foot with her sharp heel or sit in his lap.

"About as reasonable as stealing lines from better poets to fight the tongues of wenches," Miss. Atobe said, pretending to look bored. The arias and the giggle of Mr. Yukimura's slut filled the air.

"My mouth is better supplied to fight them," Mr. Oshitari actually reached over to tuck a strand of dark blond hair behind her pale ear. Miss. Atobe restrained herself from flinching back with effort. "You seem familiar, though I am very sure I would have remembered meeting you," Mr. Oshitari said.

"Many claim that I resemble the noblewoman, Keiko Atobe," Miss. Atobe said, convincingly offhand. Mr. Oshitari had met her several times before; though they ran in the same circles, they shared very little contact save for the social niceties of an entrance hall.

"Ah, that you do," Mr. Oshitari said, with a certain faraway look in his gaze. Miss. Atobe figured he must have been drinking, and quite an exorbitant amount, if there discussion was any proof. "Come home with me this evening, my lovely Fantomina?" Mr. Oshitari had a hand in his pocket; coins jangled, speaking what Mr. Oshitari did not.

Just then the complex part of feigning prostitution struck Miss. Atobe. She thought quickly and composed the story as she went, "I apologize good sir, my keeper is waiting on me this evening." It pierced her pride like a knife to even pretend to have a pimp, or master.

"Tomorrow night then," Mr. Oshitari said, looking over her form. "This booth," he further specified. "I can even have a carriage come to collect you from any location you so desire," the word _desire_ from his lips sounded like _fuck me now._

Miss. Atobe shifted uncomfortably in her seat and before she knew it, she was agreeing. They made the arrangements quickly, for Miss. Atobe acted as though she had somewhere to be immediately. "I will provide my own arrangements, good sir," she inclined her head to him as she rose. To her surprise, Mr. Oshitari rose too, only to sink to his knees. Miss. Keigo delighted in his submissive posture until he took her hand to kiss, generous lips lingering a few moments longer than strictly necessary.

"Tomorrow, then," Mr. Oshitari's eyes were the same color blue as her favorite dress and the sky of new night.

Miss. Atobe didn't think she had ever walked away from anywhere so fast. She blew straight by Miss. Sanada, who still stood by the door, examining the mahogany as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

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The next evening Miss. Atobe looked at herself in the mirror in the bathroom of the residence she rented for the evening. After all, if she decided to take Mr. Oshitari back to her place for tea, she would have to possess a pretended home. The consumption of tea is all that would occur. She purchased a new and relatively cheap dress to go along with her middle class apartment, opera tickets and mask. After all, she had to give the other one back to Miss. Akutagawa. Fortunately, said mask was plain and popular enough that Mr. Oshitari would not be suspicious to see Miss. Akutagawa wearing it. The dress was still her color; a deep, royal purple hue that offset nicely the icy blue of her eyes. Miss. Atobe prided herself on her color choices. Only a few hours earlier, she bought a deep green, high quality gown for Miss. Kamio, in exchange for the lent frock. It would compliment even that girl's scrawny frame; Miss. Atobe preened and pictured the overwhelming gratitude. Perhaps the girl would be grateful enough to kiss the hem of her dress, Miss Atobe daydreamed. That would be a pretty sight indeed. Since she was in the neighborhood, she decided to drop it off herself.

Unfortunately for Miss. Atobe, things did not quite happen like that. Miss. Kamio turned the color of her hair and sputtered. The dress was also too big, but Miss. Atobe declared that Miss. Kamio needed fattening up anyway, so that she would actually look like a woman. Miss. Atobe thought it was rather uncouth of Miss. Kamio to fling the box passionately at her head. Perhaps that was a peasant way to express the deepest of gratitude. Miss. Atobe decided the next time she visited Miss. Kamio, she would bring some scented candles. The place reeked of bathtub made Gin.

Until the Opera, Miss. Atobe went to Court as her usual person and left the disguise until afterward. She had an image (an image that matched the ornate finery of the council room) to upkeep and a plan to formulate. She was one of the only women allowed to give her input (as a stand in for her father, who was out of town) to the House of Lords, so she had a duty to do so. The empty chattering of the dunderhead fops also gave her time to figure out what on earth she would do about Mr. Oshitari this evening. She was not in habit of making appointments with someone without any particular errand; such behavior could be considered frivolous. The only errand she could think of stained her features. Tea, they would imbibe a customary cup and be on their merry way, after the opera. She pointedly avoided looking at Mr. Oshitari, who sat attentive a few rows in front of her. His shaggy hair obscured whatever he scribbled on the paper. Miss. Atobe told herself she was definitely not curious. And the curl of hair that hugged his ear at the nape of his neck did not appear at all endearing. In fact, it took effort for her not to reach into the bag at her feet and go at him with her ivory comb. If she tried, Miss. Atobe could probably smell the faint and hideous odor of cigar smoke clinging to his jacket. That smell accompanied the memory of his lips on her ungloved hand at the Opera house. Had that only been one night previous? Why did Mr. Oshitari have to be the paragon of all bad habits she abhorred? Why was she so determined to spend as much time in his presence as humanly possible? All these were questions to which she greatly feared the answer.

The moment the discussions were ended, Miss. Atobe stood to take her leave, fastidiously avoiding the gaze of Mr. Oshitari. Still, she heard the hushed, conspiratorial tones in which he spoke to Mr. Yukimura.

" – Ring for Miss. Sanada has not come in yet," Miss. Atobe heard Mr. Yukimura say. She could not quite decipher whether his tone was relieved or dismayed. Miss. Atobe presumed it might be some of both.

"Ah, that's unfortunate," Mr. Oshitari responded, in his slow, drawling voice. The depth of the sound made Miss. Atobe want to punch him in the face. "Will you be at the Opera house this evening?"

"Yes, though Miss. Sanada cannot come, she told me earlier this morning she was under the weather," Mr. Yukimura informed Mr. Oshitari gravely.

"Oh dear, perhaps you should stay with her then," Mr. Oshitari had Miss. Atobe's approval with that suggestion. Maybe some brains sat under that messy head of hair. She knew too well many considered him a genius, but she had yet to witness any hallmark of extreme intelligence. Though, he somehow captured Miss. Atobe's keen interest with so few words.

"No…" Mr. Yukimura trailed off and smiled as fake as Mr. Shishido's gilded belt buckle. His not so hushed complaints to Mr. Hiyoshi (the serving boy, who she sometimes felt wary of – as though he had plans to overthrow them all) made it rather difficult for her to overhear. She cursed upon his big mouth. "….She likes her space."

Since slowing her walk would be suspicious, Miss. Atobe kept her gaze on the door and left the auditorium. She was surprised to find Mr. Tezuka outside of her carriage, and even more surprised to see him offer his hand to help her inside. Suspiciously, she accepted the help. Mr. Tezuka said nothing, but wore the most curious expression. His thin brows knit together and he examined the top of her head. When he deviated from his usual dull stare, Mr. Tezuka could be quite handsome. Miss. Fuji was nowhere in sight, but Miss. Atobe could feel daggers digging into the back of her skull, as if Miss. Fuji were right behind her with an absurdly thick needle. To get away from the extremely uncomfortable moment of silence and the tingle of doubt that told her that he might know something, Miss. Atobe bid Mr. Tezuka good day and told the driver to depart. For some reason, Mr. Tezuka always made her feel emotionally naked. She rather thought Mr. Tezuka and Miss. Fuji deserved each other; they were both equally creepy in extraordinarily different ways. In the mirror, she saw Mr. Yukimura and Mr. Oshitari join Mr. Tezuka by the front of the building. She watched Mr. Oshitari get smaller and smaller in the glass as they drove away.

At the rented apartment, she made the quick, but thorough change into her evening disguise. She had yet to think up a lie to remove her from Mr. Oshitari's presence when he became more amorous than conversational. Skillfully, she avoided the notion that she might not want to escape. After all, her virtue was the most powerful thing she possessed…or at least, the appearance of her virtue.

Steeling herself, she lowered the half mask and painted her lips a deep red to contrast her pale skin. With a purple dress, the red might be a tad bit dramatic, but again, she was pretending to be a prostitute. Besides, she thought as she altered the style of her hair to flow down freely, she could pull off the red quite nicely. Looking at her clever disguise in the mirror removed any worry that Mr. Oshitari might recognize her. The man barely knew her, and she barely knew her own reflection. Miss. Keiko Atobe never wore such low cut dresses. Though her décolletage was by no means on the scale of Miss. Sanada's, Miss. Atobe felt it became her well. This did not stop her from stuffing a few handkerchiefs in her top. She surveyed herself in the mirror in profile and nodded, convinced it was merely practical.

The Opera house appeared much as it did yesterday, though there were many more butterflies flopping about in her gut. Since she pretended to be a commoner, she had to wait in line to enter the booth. She very much hated waiting with nothing to entertain her. Then she noticed the woman in front of her had extraordinarily wide shoulders, and very familiar brown hair. The dull mask she wore did nothing to fool her. Miss. Atobe tightened her painted lips; Mr. Yukimura claimed a few hours before that Miss. Sanada was under the weather. She presented her ticket just after Miss. Sanada and made her way to the notorious pit.

Behind the ornate door sat bawds of all shapes and sizes; as a rule, Miss Atobe did not fraternize with them. For some reason, passing into the pit was far more difficult than the previous night. This time she had a better sense of what she was getting herself into and knew her intentions to be genuinely naughty. After all, from this she had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Suddenly, this enterprise seemed much more foolish than it had while she was in the process of preparing for it.

Only because Miss Sanada entered first, without hesitation, did Miss Atobe gather the courage to enter. She looked down at the stuffed front of her own dress, then at Miss Sanada's back before pursing her lips and entering. To someone like Miss Sanada, she would not lose.

…And suddenly the competition became less fun in her head, for Mr. Yukimura had the same woman on his lap that he did yesterday. Miss Sanada said nothing, merely took the seat behind them and clenched her fist around the dull, beige fan. She looked as though she would use it to slice the slut fooling about with her fiancé in half. Instead, her eyes took on a watery sheen. Mr. Yukimura never saw her enter. Miss Atobe was overcome with the urge to slap Miss Sanada into taking justice for herself. She had actually started over to sit by her when an all too familiar voice tickled her ear.

"I am pleased you could make it, Miss. Fantomina," Mr. Oshitari smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. Miss Atobe couldn't decide whether to consider herself brilliant or utterly foolish, for that voice was like a warm fire to set her chilly feet by. The woes of Miss. Sanada left her mind for the evening.


End file.
